Twisted
by SupernaturallyEgocentric
Summary: Sam and Dean if their lives had taken a different road. Hunters still, but a LOT darker. Rated for bad language, psychotic behavior and MUCHO BAD STUFF. Some very mild slash. Chapters are not in order but are all connected. WARNING: Rape. Also, major character death but not Sam or Dean. Periodic updates as the muse dictates.
1. Chapter 1

Dean dumped another shovelful of dirt into the open grave.

"It's not like I didn't warn you," he said conversationally. "Don't push me. I _told_ you." More dirt in the hole. "Short-tempered, that's me." Dean shook his head regretfully.

Scrape. Dump.

"Man who's gonna play pool oughta know there's always somebody better waiting to kick your ass." He dumped in one last shovelful and tamped the earth down. "And you _definitely_ oughta know you don't lay hands on a man who carries an eight-inch Bowie knife." He grinned, green eyes sharp and predatory. "Guess he learned that lesson a little too late, huh, Sammy?"

Sam, sitting next to the grave, eyes lambent in the moonlight, remained silent.

Tossing the shovel down, Dean extended a hand to his brother and pulled him up into a hard kiss. "You mad at me, baby?"

Sam shook his head.

Dean stroked a gentle hand down Sam's cheek and Sam smiled and leaned into it.

"You ever gonna talk again, Sammy?"

In answer, Sam offered his mouth and Dean covered it with his own. After a slow, warm, silent space, Dean murmured, "It's okay if you don't want to talk, Sammy. There's lots of other things you can do with your mouth."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Okay, I got no freaking clue where this came from, but it's gonna be fun.


	2. Chapter 2

I'm changing the title to 'Twisted' because a favorite author of mine, smalld1171, has a story posting now called 'Distorted' and I don't want to co-opt it. I know she didn't mind, but I felt bad, so - there you go.

CHAPTER 2

Sam sat up in bed, guarding his brother's sleep.

How long had it been since he'd last spoken out loud? When their father had coughed out his last breath? When Bobby had turned them away after Dean's last blood-soaked free-for-all? Long enough he couldn't remember anymore, that was all he knew for sure.

It wasn't that he had nothing to say. It was more like there was too much. Too much, and none of it would make any difference in how things were. All the words in the world couldn't change the fact that his brother was a killer; and not just a killer, but a lover of death.

Dean stirred in his sleep and Sam ran a soothing hand over him, humming softly under his breath. When Dean didn't settle, Sam sighed and lay down beside him. Curling up against his brother's side, drowsing and dreaming, he watched the flickering shadows cast by the candle beside the bed, and waited for the morning.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

Dean searched the dilapidated house thoroughly. Each time he found a sleeping vamp, he removed the head – _whack! _- and popped it into the duffel bag that Sam was carrying. So far the count was eleven.

Dean looked at the cellar door. "Sweet." He grinned at Sam. "What do you think? Six more?"

Sam shook his head and held up five fingers.

Dean frowned. "You're not using that psychic shit, are you? 'Cause you know that would be cheating."

Sam gave a silent laugh. Five fingers.

"Okay, then." Dean took the duffel bag and peeked inside, shuddering pleasantly. "Nice." Opening the basement door, he flipped on the light switch and tossed the bag down the stairs. "Wakey wakey, eggs and baccy!"

OOOOOOOOOO

"Son of a bitch!" Dean tossed the last head – fucking number _five_ - to the floor and glared at Sam, who stood halfway up the stairs. "You _sure_ you weren't using your psychic shit?"

Sam shrugged and came down the rest of the way, picked up the duffel bag and started retrieving heads – the original eleven and the new five.

Dean started dragging the headless bodies into the center of the room, preparatory to starting a bonfire. "I don't know, Sammy, sometimes I don't think you get the concept of fair play." He stopped. "Holy crap, look at the rack on her!"

Sam stopped harvesting heads and stared at him. Dean raised his hands defensively. "What! Look, I love you and all, but I'm not freaking dead!" He gestured to the stacked corpse at his feet. "Check her out!"

Sam's expression suddenly went from Bitchface to Oh Shit! and Dean heard a rustle and a hiss behind him. He started to turn – _way_ too fucking late – and a flash of silver flew past his head and buried itself in the throat of the vampire getting ready to rip him a new one. Dean followed up Sam's blade with a swing of his machete and the vamp's head – fucking number _six_ – flew.

Kicking the vamp in the side – "shithead!" – Dean grinned at Sam, wide and fierce. "Ha! Six! I win, psychic boy!"


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Bobby walked into the tavern and sat down on a stool at the bar.

"Whiskey," he said to the bartender, a short, skinny blond with lively chocolate-brown eyes.

She smiled, plunked a glass down in front of him and poured him a shot. As she started to lift the bottle away, he took it away from her and set it down. "Leave it," he said gruffly.

Unruffled, she nodded and went back down to the other end of the bar, where she'd been talking with a customer when Bobby walked in.

Bobby drained the glass quickly and refilled it, tossing that one back as well. The third one he put down on the bar and just sat staring at it, mind blank.

"I'm telling you, Jo, I'm fucking lucky to be alive!" a voice insisted. "They were driving this old Impala, just like the news said. Two young guys, one dark and one blond. The dark one didn't talk at all and the blond one never shut the fuck up!"

Bobby raised his eyes from the glass and stared into the mirror behind the bar.

"A biker gang came into The Iron Horse last night, a _real_ biker gang. The kind if you look sideways at 'em, they remove your spleen with a spoon and feed it to you." The voice was a mixture of remembered terror and excitement. "They were playing pool and fucking waitresses in the back room when these two guys came in."

A murmur from the bartender that Bobby couldn't quite catch.

"Most of the regulars left when the bikers came in. _I_ was the only one stupid enough to stay. Even the fucking _bartender_ left." The speaker paused for a quick drink. "I recognized those two the minute they came in, knew things were gonna go to shit, but the bikers were too drunk or stoned or just too _stupid_ to see it coming."

Bobby slowly lifted his glass and took a sip.

"The blond one starts waving money at 'em, says he wants to play pool! Could tell they thought he was an easy mark, but that didn't last long. He kicked their _asses_. Then when he told them to pay up, they told him to fuck off." The man gave a little groan. "Big mistake!"

"Blondie pulled a machete out of his coat, a fucking _machete,_ and started chopping 'em up. They had guns and knives and it didn't matter. He killed 'em all -seven, eight, I don't even know."

Another murmur from Jo.

"No. No, that wasn't me." The man's voice was stifled. "One of the bikers called 911, if you can believe that. The blond one was starting to work on the last biker with a knife when the cops came in."

Bobby drained his glass and refilled it.

Jo's voice was louder now. "Shit, Max, he killed _cops_?"

"I don't think he cared what they were. Christ, Jo, gimme another drink."

Jo poured him another one, the bottle chattering a little against the lip of the glass, then waited until Max downed half of it. "What then?"

"The other one, the dark-haired one, he saw me hiding over against the wall, behind a table. He – he _smiled_ at me! His brother is chopping up cops and he's smiling at me, like, like - " He gave a little sob. "Shit, his smilin' freaked me out almost as much as all the killing!"

Jo poured the silently weeping man another drink. "On the house, Max. Drink up." She patted his arm sympathetically. "I've got a cot in back you can crash on, get some sleep. You can't drive like this."

"Jo, when they left, they took that biker with them. He was screaming. His guts were – " He looked at her with red, swollen eyes. "_Christ_, Jo, I don't think I'm ever gonna sleep again."

As the man dissolved into tears again, Bobby pulled out his wallet and tossed a couple of bills onto the bar. Jo looked over at him and nodded absently as the grizzled hunter walked out.

Climbing into his truck, Bobby laid his head on the steering wheel, fighting back the wave of pain and remorse that swept over him. _Damn_ it all. He should've taken Dean out three years ago, when he'd realized what the boy was.

How many people had died under Dean's hands during those three years? How much blood was on _his_ hands because he'd been unwilling to kill the man he'd loved as a son for almost twenty-five years?

Bobby scrubbed away a stray tear and started the truck. He was going to find them. He was going to end this. Now.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

A low, choking moan brought Dean out of a sound sleep and he leaned anxiously over his brother, placing a gentling hand on his shoulder. "Sammy? Wake up, buddy. It's okay, it's just a dream."

Sam moaned again, a low guttural sound of such anguish that Dean's face twisted in pain upon hearing it. "Sammy, please, wake up!"

Sam's eyes flew open and, with a wordless cry, he threw himself from the bed, landing on the floor with a heavy thud.

"Sam!" Dean followed and knelt down beside him, but when he felt Dean's hand, Sam scrambled away, cramming himself into the corner of the room next to the bed.

Moving slowly, Dean switched on the bedside lamp. As the dim light illuminated the room, Sam whimpered and held his hands in front of his face, shaking his head in frantic protest.

Knowing that to bring back the darkness at this point would only prolong Sam's torment, Dean left the lamp on. "Oh, Sammy." He crouched a few feet away from the shattered boy. "Sam, it's okay. It's just me. He's gone. Dad's gone. He's gone forever."

Moaning at the monster's name, Sam tried to squeeze himself even further into the corner. Dean held his position, speaking softly, reassuringly, until Sam tentatively lowered his hands and looked back at him, long, sweat-soaked hair hanging into his ashen face.

Dean's breath hitched a little at the terror reflected in that face. "You - you okay, baby?"

Sam's eyes, wide and frightened, darted searchingly around the room.

"He's not here, Sammy, I promise," Dean said pleadingly. "I swear on my life, he's gone and he's not coming back. He's never gonna hurt you again." He held out a coaxing hand. "Come on, baby, come back to bed."

Sam sent another cringing look around the room, then hesitantly took Dean's hand and let his brother pull him up from the floor.

"That's okay, Sammy." Dean circled him with his arms and held him close, kissed his forehead. "You're good. We're good. How about I make us some hot chocolate. You'd like that, wouldn't you? With some of those little marshmallows?"

Sam nodded, little jerking movements, eyes calming a bit now, focusing on his brother's face.

"Yeah, that'd be good," Dean continued softly. "I love those fucking marshmallows. And when we leave tomorrow, how about we stop at that pet store we saw on the way in? They had some puppies in the window. You want to stop and get some puppy kisses before we blow town?"

Little by little, Dean calmed Sam down. Little by little, the terror left Sam's eyes. Dean cajoled his little brother back into bed and while they waited for the water to heat, he talked about puppies and how good Mom's banana pancakes had been, and how maybe they'd stop at the Grand Canyon again the next time they hit Arizona.

Dean managed to get almost a whole cup of hot chocolate down Sam, then kissed the remains of the melted marshmallows off of his brother's acquiescent lips. He laid Sam back in bed, covered him with a soft blanket and hummed him back to sleep with their mother's favorite song.

Then, watching his baby brother sleep, Dean thought about their father. And wished that he were alive, just so he could kill the son-of-a-bitch all over again.


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

Sissy had owned the Dewdrop for almost fifteen years, and had worked there for a hell of a lot longer. She liked to say that nothing could ever surprise her. Interest, yes. Intrigue, maybe. Surprise? Shock? Not so much.

That one night changed everything.

Sam and Dean were good-looking enough to draw her immediate attention when they came into the bar – the older boy a blond, energetic blaze of sunshine talking a mile a minute; the younger boy dark and quiet, with a sweet smile and the face of an angel.

They took a booth right across from the bar, the dark boy settling into the back of the booth and the blond, instead of sitting across from his companion, squeezing in next to him and running a hand affectionately through his friend's dark hair.

The waitress, Tanya, coming to take their order, paused when she saw that, and Sissy smiled inwardly, seeing the disappointment on the young woman's face.

When Tanya brought their order to Sissy at the bar, the older woman said teasingly, "Tough luck, them playing for the other team."

Tanya blushed a little, looking back over her shoulder at the boys. "No kidding, huh? Are they the best looking guys we've had here in ages, or is it just me?"

Sissy chuckled. "I'm old enough to be their mama and _my_ knees feel a little weak. What are they drinking?"

"One whiskey, one beer." She waited while Sissy got the drinks together. Then, putting the drinks on her tray, she added, "They want dinner, too, cheeseburgers and fries, but not for about half an hour. Can you tell Elliot? After I drop this off, I'm going to take my dinner break."

"Sure, no problem," Sissy said promptly. "Love to see those two a little closer up."

Tanya looked a little shocked.

"Tanya, honey, I don't mind when Thomas appreciates the view," Sissy said matter-of-factly. "Why should he?"

Tanya's face sobered. "Speaking of Thomas, how's he doing?"

"Driving me crazy. Early retirement is likely to kill both of us if he doesn't find something constructive to do." Sissy looked over at the booth. "You get those drinks on over there, Tanya. Then go ahead and take your break. I'll take care of their dinner."

OOOOOOOOOO

Half an hour later, Sissy took their food over to the strangers. "Welcome to the Dewdrop, boys. I'm Sissy Bowdrie and I own this place. You-all just get into Prayerful?"

"We did," the older boy answered, "I'm Dean." He hooked a casual thumb at his companion. "This is Sam."

Sam nodded, looking down and away from her, dark hair falling across his face. A little shy, Sissy judged. She set their loaded plates down on the table, checked the condiments and noticed that their glasses were empty.

"How about a refill?"

Sam shook his head hastily.

Dean beamed at Sissy (_oh my lord, what a smile_) and she chuckled. "Damn, boy, tone that charm down a little before Tanya comes back in, or you'll break her fool heart." She tapped a long red nail on his empty glass. "You want another whiskey or not?"

Dean laughed out loud. "Yes, ma'am, I do."

She took up the empty glasses. "I'll be back in just a minute, Dean. You sure you don't want anything, Sam?"

A faint smile on his lips, Sam shook his head and Sissy headed back to the bar, laughing and shaking her blond head.

OOOOOOOOOO

She kept an eye on them and as the night wore on, found something more to be interested in than just their looks. Because during all that long evening, Sam never uttered a word. Dean, he talked pretty much non-stop. But the darker boy never did more than smile and nod in answer to his companion's never-ending monologue. Was it just his shyness kept him so quiet, Sissy wondered. Or was he a mute? Seemed a shame, if so. None of her business, of course.

The two young men were very affectionate with each other, giving each other an occasional kiss and hug, which got them a couple of glances from a few of the locals. None of them said anything, of course. Sissy had kicked enough tight-asses out of her place over the years that all the locals knew not to make trouble. The Dewdrop being the only decent bar within twenty miles of Prayerful, no one was willing to chance being barred.

As it was a weeknight, most of the crowd cleared out around eleven. By midnight, there were only a few men left playing pool in the back, and Sam and Dean. The two boys had broken out a deck of cards and were playing a little draw poker, with pretzels as the stakes.

Even though Tanya had gone home more than an hour earlier, Sissy had nothing much to do so she told Elliot to keep an eye on the bar and wandered over to the boys' booth.

"You-all mind if I sit in?"

Dean looked up at her with bright green eyes and cast a questioning look at Sam. Sam looked at Sissy for a moment and then nodded. After a couple of hands, during which none of them said much of anything, even Dean, Sissy asked casually, "So, where you-all from?"

Dean tossed in a couple of cards and accepted two new ones. "We're from all over. No one special place." He sighed at his new cards and threw in his hand. "Crap."

"I've lived my whole life in Prayerful," Sissy remarked, studying her cards. "My daddy bought this place in '74, left it to me when he died." She shook her head and tossed in her cards. "Lord, it's a good thing I don't gamble for a living. I'd starve to death." She nodded to Sam. "Your hand, Sam."

Grinning, Sam raked in the pretzels as Dean watched him with narrowed eyes.

"It's a funny name, Prayerful," Dean remarked a few minutes later, shuffling. Done, he handed the deck to Sissy to deal.

"Prayerful was founded right after the Civil War ended," Sissy answered absently. "Put together by a bunch of people lost their homes during the war. Led by a hard-ass Baptist preacher who thought the name would bring in the right kind of folk."

"Did it work?" Dean asked.

"He was supposedly shot and killed by a gambler who didn't like being told he was going to hell for his sins. So - I'm thinking not."

Sam snorted and she smiled at him wryly.

They played for nearly an hour, the luck decidedly in Sam's favor. Dean gave him a suspicious glance from time to time. Sam looked back at him with wide, innocent eyes. _Who, me?_

Just after one o'clock, Sam managed to fill an inside straight. Both Dean and Sissy groaned and, with a grin, Sam triumphantly pulled in the pile of pretzels and tossed one into his mouth, a wide yawn interrupting him in mid-chew.

Dean laughed and gave Sam's head a swat. "Looks like we'd better head out. Get Samantha here to bed."

Sam gave him a bitch face, but it wasn't too effective as he yawned in the middle of it.

Sissy laughed. "Yeah. I guess it is about time to close up. My husband will be coming to pick me up soon. You two got a place to stay? There's a nice place down the street from here."

"Yeah, we're good, thanks, Sissy." Dean stood up and pulled on his jacket, moving out of the way so Sam could get out of the booth.

"Well, next time you two come by this way, you be sure to stop and say hey." She gave them both a maternal pat on the arm and then went back to the bar, sending Elliot over to the pool tables to let the players know they were closing.

"See ya, Sissy!" Dean called out as they left.

Sissy smiled and waved, starting to wipe down the bar.

As the boys went out the door, Thomas, Sissy's husband, came in. He gave the two a casual nod, but after they passed, did a violent double-take and spun around to stare after them.

Dean caught the sudden movement and turned swiftly back, hand snaking inside his jacket. "You want something?" he snapped.

Thomas said nothing, just stared.

Dean's face split into a wide grin and he laughed mockingly. Sam put a hand on Dean's arm, shaking his head.

After a tense moment, both boys took a final glance at Sissy and disappeared into the night.

When Thomas turned back into the bar, his face was dead white and his eyes stunned.

Afraid his heart was giving him trouble – he'd retired from the county sheriff's department last year after a heart valve replacement - Sissy hurried around the bar to him. "Tom, honey, are you okay?"

"Holy God," he muttered. "I can't believe it."

She steered him to a booth, signaling to Elliot for a whiskey. The older man had the whiskey to them by the time Tom was seated at the booth the boys had just vacated.

"You want I should call an ambulance, Sis?" Elliot asked.

Seeing that with the first sip of whiskey a little color was coming back into her man's face, Sissy shook her head and Elliot started to bus the tables, keeping an eye on the couple just in case.

Tom passed a shaking hand over his face. "_Christ_."

"Honey, what is it?"

Ignoring his wife for the moment, Tom pulled out his cell phone and jabbed clumsily at the buttons - Sissy watching, confused and concerned.

"Della, this is Tom Bowdrie. Let me talk to Buster."

**. . . **

"I don't care how busy he is, this is an emergency. Just put me through."

**. . . **

"Buster, it's Tom. I'm over at The Dewdrop and the Winchesters just walked out of here."

**. . . **

"No, I'm not fucking kidding. You gotta get cars out, cover the highway in both directions. And let the Staties know. I doubt they'll stay in town, they know I made them, but you better check anyway. You can't miss that damned car of theirs."

. . .

"No, I didn't brace them! I don't carry a goddamned howitzer in my shorts!"

. . .

"Okay. Yeah. Okay. I'll come in soon."

He closed the phone and tossed it onto the table. "Shit!"

Sissy laid a tentative hand on her husband's arm. "Tommy? What's happening?"

Feeling a little steadier, he looked at Sissy. "How long were those guys in here?" His tone was almost accusing.

Sissy frowned, feeling a little protective of the two young men. "Sam and Dean? They were in here all night. They weren't any trouble. What's the problem?"

"Don't you remember me telling you about the killings in Missouri last week? The bikers? And the cops?"

Sissy nodded. "Yes. What's that got to do –" she stopped, her blue eyes widening. "You – that's _impossible_!"

"I know their faces as well as I know my own," he said grimly. "I've been staring at their mug shots all week."

"Oh, Tommy,_ no. . ." Sissy said, horrified. "_They're just _boys_."

"They're killers," he said flatly. "I've seen the security footage from The Iron Horse. Dean Winchester killed eight men with no more thought than if he was stomping on roaches. One man was cut wide open, tortured –" he stopped, seeing the sick look on her face and pulled her close, shuddering. "Jesus, Sissy. _Jesus_. You could've been _killed_."

Sissy stared at him, speechless.

Four policemen came in, moving fast, their guns drawn.

"It's okay," Tom called. "They're gone."

OOOOOOOOOO

While Tom talked to the police, Sissy went back to the bar, feeling distraught and scattered. Picking up a rag, she started rubbing down the top of the bar.

"I'm finished with clean-up." Elliot came up to the bar, looking at the policemen apprehensively. "Sis – what's going on?"

"They're going to want to talk to you, Elliot," Sissy said evenly. "Once they do, you go on home." With another glance at the policemen, Elliot sat down at the bar and waited.

After a few minutes, two of the policemen left. When one of the remaining officers came to talk to Elliot and the other went to the back to speak to the still lingering pool players, Tom came over to Sissy. "You okay, hon?"

Sissy sighed. "Not really."

"It's over now," he said comfortingly. "I doubt they'll come back this way."

"I'm not worried about _that_," she said sharply. "Tom – they're not any older than our Augie. I spent most of the night playing cards with them. I _liked_ them. How is something like this even possible?"

He shrugged helplessly. "Sometimes – Sissy, sometimes people are just born _wrong_."

Tears stung Sissy's eyes and she angrily wiped them away. "I want to go home."

"They're going to need to talk to you first, Sis," Tom said apologetically. "You spent a lot of time with them. We need to know what you talked about. If they said anything about where they're heading."

Sissy drew in a short breath, feeling the tears start to come back. "I'll be back in a minute." Turning, she went through the door into the kitchen. The normally familiar, comforting room looked strange to her now. Starting to shake, she lowered herself into a chair and stared into space.

"It doesn't make any sense," she said aloud.

Dean's smile, full of mischief and fun. The way his eyes softened when he looked at Sam. And Sam, that silent boy, his expressive eyes - that sweet, _sweet_ smile.

Then she thought of the way Dean had turned on Thomas. How his hand had darted into his jacket. For a gun?

She could have _lost_ her Thomas.

At the thought, Sissy started to weep. Thomas came through the door into the kitchen. She rose from the chair and went to him, hugging him hard around the waist.

"I'm sorry, baby," he said sadly. `

"I want to go home, Tom," Sissy said through her tears. "I need to see my Augie."

"That's okay, baby," he said, a lump in his throat. "We'll go home soon. I promise."


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

"I'm gonna be a while, Sammy," Dean said, surprised. "Sure you don't want to come in?"

Sam looked inside the bar. It was crowded, dark and smoky. He shook his head positively and motioned to the park across the street. Only one child played there, on the swings. A man sat on a bench near him, talking on a cell phone.

Dean looked across at the park and frowned, not liking the idea of Sam being out on his own. "Sam, come on in. Just one game, I promise."

Sam patted Dean's arm reassuringly and pointed up at the sun, then back at the park. He gave Dean a pat on the cheek and trotted across the street.

Dean stared uneasily after him, then shrugged – _just one game_ - and went into the bar.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

The park was small; just a swing set, a rickety slide, some monkey bars and a nearly empty sandbox.

Sam sat on the bench near the monkey bars, his arms stretched along the top of the bench, face turned up to the late afternoon sun. The steady, rhythmic creak of the boy's swing as he soared through the air was soothing, nearly hypnotic, sending him close to the edge of sleep.

"Alex!"

Startled, Sam opened his eyes, blinking against the sun.

"Alex! Get your ass over here!"

The boy, probably around eight-years-old, dug his feet into the gravel, halting his flight. He ran to the man on the bench and the man roughly grabbed his arm. "You come the first time I call you! Don't make me repeat myself!"

"Sorry, Daddy," Alex said in a small voice, looking at the ground.

"Your mom's home. About damned time, too. It's not like I've got nothing to do but watch you."

The boy didn't answer. Grunting in disgust, the man got up, shoving the boy toward the sidewalk. "Get going."

Face dark, Alex bit back a protest and started walking, careful to keep a couple of feet ahead of his father.

When they were no more than a block down the street, Sam uncoiled from the bench and slouched down the street after them.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Dean couldn't concentrate on the game. It was just no damned fun without Sam.

Even though he was kicking his opponent's ass, he dropped the pool cue, tossed the wager onto the table and walked out without a word.

Outside, he scanned the park and cursed violently, an ugly look on his face. Where the hell was his brother?

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Ed Waldrop stalked away from his ex-wife's house. Bitch! Where the hell did she get off? If he had the money he'd _pay_ the damned support! Did she think he _liked_ knowing that the kid needed new shoes and she couldn't afford it? Did she think he liked being out of work?

Scowling at the injustice of life, Ed started across the street to his car, then stopped when someone stepped suddenly in front of him. "What –"

A fist plowed into his nose, breaking it and sending him to the ground. Flat on his back, hands clasped protectively over his bloody nose, Ed looked up to see a young man - a stranger - standing over him. "Who the hell are you?" he croaked.

Sam smiled and kicked Ed in the side. The crack of a broken rib was lost in the sound of the man's choking scream. He tried to scramble away. Sam stomped on his ankle and another crack sounded. Ed collapsed, eyes bulging, the pain too great to allow another scream. "Stop," he gasped hoarsely. "_Please_! "

Sam never lost his smile, but his eyes were far away.

_It's your fault, Sam_!

Sam kicked Eddie in the ribs again. Another crack. The man couldn't even moan now.

_ You should have died, you bastard! _

A stomp to the groin.

_ Hold still, you little freak!_

Sam's boot connected with Ed's head and the man went still.

"Hey!" Dean appeared beside Sam, gun in hand. "What the fuck, Sam?"

Sam looked at his brother and then disinterestedly back down at the body.

Dean glanced around at the crowd of horrified housewives and stunned children gaping at the bloody scene. At the forefront of the crowd, a young woman was holding a struggling young boy back. She was weeping. The boy's face was streaked with tears; eyes fixed on the motionless body.

Sirens wailed, coming closer.

Careful not to startle him, Dean took Sam's arm and pulled him unresisting to the Impala, idling a few feet away.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

When they were well away, Dean stopped the car and made Sam change his blood- spattered clothing. Sam seemed vaguely surprised, but did as his brother asked.

Back on the road, Dean asked no questions about what had happened. He drove, fingers drumming on the steering wheel to an inner rhythm, happy to be tooling down the highway in his baby with his brother safe beside him.

Eyes tranquil, Sam sat with his hands clasped lightly in his lap. After a time, his body listed to the side and his head rested on Dean's shoulder.

He slept.


	8. Chapter 8

Okay, heads up. Bad shit happening here.

LET ME EMPHASIZE. STRICTLY AU STORY. DOES NOT FOLLOW CANON. IF YOU'RE A BIG JOHN FAN, I WOULDN'T READ IT. DON'T SAY I DIDN'T WARN YOU.

CHAPTER 8

Dean tossed the shovel in the trunk of the car. Pulling a bottle of water out of the cooler, he chugged it thirstily, then slammed the lid down and got back into the car.

Ignoring the faint sound of sirens in the distance, he gunned the Impala and guided her swiftly out of the cemetery and back out onto the access road, moving at a (mostly) moderate speed until he merged onto the highway. Then, open road before him, he jammed the hell out of the accelerator.

_ Freaking Dad!_

Why the hell he'd sent Dean on this milk run salt and burn - it made no sense! Damned ghost wasn't even killing anyone! Who cared if a two-hundred-year old ghost got its jollies by scaring teenagers out for nookie? Fuckin' kids shouldn't be in a cemetery at night anyway!

And then to forbid Sam to come with him, saying he needed to work on his exorcisms? Dean called bullshit. Sam's Latin was _flawless_. He'd been sending demons back to Hell with it since he was twelve years old.

Something was off.

And not just with this stupid job, not just with his father, but with Sam. When John told Sam he couldn't go with Dean, his brother hadn't fought it, hadn't even argued, which in itself was weird, because Sam _always_ argued about not going with Dean.

Sam's face had just gone blank and his eyes kinda dead. Hadn't said a word, just watched as Dean got ready to leave.

Sure, Dean had found a private moment to say good-bye to his brother, but Sam hadn't said anything even then. He'd just offered his mouth for a short kiss and then John was banging on the bedroom door and hustling Dean out to the goddamned car.

Latin!

_Bullshit. _

Some of John's damned Marine Corp training, that's what this was, he'd bet his last fucking dollar!

John had been bitching for months that Sam needed to get his head into the game, needed to spend more time shooting, more time running, more time researching - more time learning to be everything he wasn't.

Fucker had actually _said_ that to Sammy's _face_!

That had hurt Sam. He hadn't said anything, but Dean knew his brother.

And now, to top it all off, Dean hadn't even been able to speak to Sam in the three days since he'd left them! Every single goddamned time he'd called, Sam had been at school, or out training, or asleep.

Bullshit again. Dad was probably just worried that Sam would complain about whatever crap training he was being put through. Thinking that if he kept them separated Sam would knuckle under and do what he was told.

Well, fuck you, Dad.

This was over. He was _done_. No more hunts on his own. He missed his brother, badly, the ache physical and fierce. He was going home. And the next time his father wanted to send him out on his own – well, let's just say Dad's good little soldier wasn't going to be so fucking good anymore.

SUPNSUPNSUPN

An hour into the drive, Dean's cell phone rang.

"You get that ghost?" his father asked.

"Yeah," Dean said shortly. "I'm on my way back now. Can I talk to - "

"I've got another job for you," John said. "Where are you?"

John's voice sounded a little rattled and Dean's radar kicked in. "About four hours out, just past Quincy. What's wrong, Dad?"

"Nothing," John said quickly. "I just got word of a possible ghoul in Morristown. I want you to stop in there on your way home, see if there's anything to it."

"Any deaths?"

"Not yet. Be good if we could get out in front of it before that happens."

"What's the hurry?" Dean was feeling his way, trying to figure out what was going on. "I can be home in a few hours if I push it, and we can all three head over there."

"No!" The word was almost a shout. John cleared his throat, lowered his voice. "Soon as you finish up in Morristown, you come on back here." He gave a spurious little laugh. "You know Sam wouldn't thank you for pulling him out of school early."

Something dark and nasty started bubbling in Dean's belly. "Is Sammy around?"

"He's sleeping."

"Is he okay?"

John's tone had a brittle edge to it. "I worked him pretty hard today. Ran his ass around the park a few times."

Dean's mouth went dry. He could smell the lie coming through the phone. It stank of deceit. Reeked of fear. It took every ounce of willpower he had not to scream.

"Okay, then," he managed, carefully casual. "I'll scout out Morristown, see what's what, call you from there."

"Sounds good." John disconnected the call.

Dean's lips pulled back from his teeth in a silent snarl and he pushed his foot down hard on the accelerator. The Impala surged forward.

Fuck Morristown.

OOOOOOOOOO

John was prepared to admit that he might have gone too far this time, but enough was enough.

He nudged Sam's thigh impatiently with his foot. "Come on, get up."

Sam didn't look up, didn't move. His chin stayed planted on his chest, dark hair hanging down over his face.

John nudged him again, a little harder. Nothing. Sighing, he reached down and tugged his son up, shoving him onto the bed. A long shudder rippled over Sam, then it was gone and he was still again.

"Get your ass into the bathroom and wash up," John said, staring with distaste at his son.

Sam's head lifted a little, then sank back down again, the effort too much.

John reached down and smacked him on the side of the head. "Hey! You hear me? Haul your dead ass into the bathroom and get washed up!"

Sam raised his head, stared just to the left of John's face. He laid his hands on the bed and tried to push himself up, but the strength wasn't there and he slumped back down, shaking.

With a grunt of disgust, John yanked him up again and shoved him across the room. "Clean yourself up. Last time I'm tellin' you."

Still silent, Sam stumbled into the bathroom. Keeping his gaze on the floor, he closed the door behind him, careful not to lock it.

John shook his head. Damned kid was weak. Always had been. No matter how much extra time and effort he spent on him, Sam just couldn't come up with it.

He turned back to the bed and stripped it, tossing the stained sheets into a green trash bag, then remade the bed. He made a quick circuit of the room, tossing anything into the bag that might raise a question from his eldest son, then put the trash bag into the closet.

He heard the shower turn on, and the sound of Sam stepping into it. The sounds brought a sudden tightness back to John's cock. His hand drifted down and he rubbed himself through the harsh material of his jeans, the thought of burying himself in Sam one more time before Dean came back suddenly all-consuming.

Dean won't be back until tomorrow, at the earliest, he thought, breath quickening. There's still time. The room's clean, mostly. If I do it in the bathroom, I can shove him back in the shower, let him clean up again. Then he can sleep it off, be fine by the time Dean gets back.

Unzipping his jeans, John went to the bathroom door. He didn't bother to knock, just walked in and yanked the shower curtain back.

Sam twisted to face him, eyes wide and startled. His expression shifted quickly into resignation as John grabbed him roughly by the arm and pulled him out of the shower, letting the water run on.

SUPNSUPNSUPN

The motel was full. There was no room for the Impala in the small lot.

Dean parked the car out on the street and walked toward their room, tired and on edge. It was late. He'd needed to sleep hours ago, but even more than sleep, he needed to lay eyes on his little brother, make sure he was okay.

Maybe he'd imagined the nervousness in his father's voice earlier, or maybe that nervousness had had nothing to do with Sam. But until he saw him, saw that there was nothing wrong besides maybe another stupid fight with their father, he couldn't rest.

As Dean approached their room, he saw that the lights were on. It was quiet. No sound of voices or the television. He opened the door with his key and stepped over the salt line, closing the door quietly behind him. Dropping his duffel on the floor next to the door, he looked around with a frown. Everything looked okay . . .

He heard the water running in the bathroom and relaxed a little. Yeah, he'd overreacted to Dad's phone call. He was overtired, imagining things. Dad had probably gone out and Sam was taking a shower. Kid had trouble sleeping some nights. Sometimes a warm shower could relax him enough so he could drift off.

Dean smirked. Maybe he could help Sam out a little with the relaxing part. If Dad was out drinking, they'd have time for a little -

There was a hoarse cut off scream in the bathroom, followed by a harsh curse and the sound of a blow.

Dean crossed the room in two quick strides and opened the bathroom door.

John's pants were down around his knees. One hand fisted in Sam's long hair, his other hand dug hard into his youngest son's hip, holding him belly down over the bathroom counter as he fucked into him, ignoring Sam's stifled whimpers of pain.

Red-faced with exertion, John looked around as the door opened. His mouth fell open in surprise and he pulled his cock out of Sam, releasing him and letting him slump heavily to the floor.

"Dean, it's not what it looks – " John started.

Dean's gun, in his hand from the moment he heard the scream, fired once. A hole appeared in the center of his father's chest, exiting through his back in a shower of blood. He fell backward into the shower, pulling the curtain down on top of himself.

Ignoring John's blood-choked gasps, Dean dropped to his knees beside his naked brother. "Sam?" He laid a trembling hand on the back of Sam's neck. "Sammy?"

Sam slowly opened his eyes. Hazel eyes stared into green, vacant for a long moment, then a little of the haze left his eyes. His lips formed Dean's name, but no sound emerged.

"Sammy, can you move?" A tear ran down Dean's cheek and he wiped it away. "Sorry, man, I know you're hurting, but we gotta get outta here, in case someone called the cops."

After a beat, Sam gave the slightest of nods and weakly pushed himself up from the floor. A sharp pain from John's brutal assault tore through him and he started to sag back down, but Dean caught him around the waist and held him until he steadied.

"We'll get you dressed, then we're getting the hell out of here," Dean said in a choked voice. "Okay? Sammy, okay?"

Sam nodded, eyes fixed on Dean's. His lips moved again, soundlessly, and he touched his brother's face, tentative at first, then his lips curved into what was almost a smile.

Not looking into the bathtub, the two moved slowly, haltingly, into the bedroom. Dean dressed Sam, trying to be as gentle as he could; trying not to cry at the bruises and cuts covering his brother's abused body.

Once Sam was dressed, Dean hastily crammed his things into a duffle, along with all the weapons that were in the room and whatever of John's stuff he thought they could use. Then he threw both their bags over his shoulder and guided his still silent brother out to the Impala.


	9. Chapter 9

Dean looked out the window into the night, ghostly fingers raising the hair on the back of his neck.

Someone was hunting their ass and they were getting too goddamned close.

Not cops - those yahoos couldn't find their asses with both hands and a roadmap. No, this was a hunter and Dean had a feeling he knew which damned hunter it was.

Growling, he turned away from the window and paced agitatedly around the darkened motel room.

Bobby son of a _bitch_ Singer!

This - sucked.

Bobby was supposed to be their friend! Sure, they'd had some problems in the past, but he was _family_. Dean couldn't count the times he had taken care of them as kids. Hell, the scrap yard in Sioux Falls had been home, as much as they'd ever had.

After John had died (_after Dean had killed him_) Bobby had taken them in. And, though John had been his friend, he hadn't treated Dean like a monster for killing his own father.

In fact, he'd gotten the impression that the hunter would have taken care of it himself if the bastard weren't already dead.

Most importantly – and Dean was still grateful for this even in the midst of his anger toward the old man - Bobby hadn't treated Sam like a freak when he stopped talking.

So when had things changed?

Dean could pinpoint that exactly.

The three of them had been hunting a Rugaru in Jacksonville. After they killed the freak, they found out she had a kid, a boy around eleven. A boy who, according to lore, would grow up and turn into a monster just like dear old mom.

Bobby wouldn't kill him. Plain fact was he just didn't have it in him to kill a kid.

So Dean had done what Bobby could not.

He'd gone back to the lair after Bobby and Sam went to bed, shot the boy and burned the body.

He'd taken care of freaking business.

Dean wasn't stupid. He hadn't planned to let Bobby in on it. Why stir shit up? Plan was to go back to Sioux Falls with Bobby none the wiser that Dean had taken care of (_killed_) the kid. Happy ever after.

Things hadn't worked out that way.

When he'd gotten back to the motel, Bobby had been waiting up for him. He looked at the blood and smoke on Dean's clothes and gone quiet. He'd looked at Dean as if _he_ were the monster; as if _Dean_ were something Bobby might have to hunt someday.

The memory, from not so very long ago, of how Bobby had looked at him that night, brought a rush of hot tears to his eyes.

Cursing under his breath, Dean rubbed them away.

_Fuck that!_ _Who needs the old bastard, anyway?_

Always in tune with his brother's moods, Sam stirred uneasily in their bed.

Dean crossed to him quickly. He sat down beside his brother, smoothed the boy's tangled hair back from his face and pressed a feather-light kiss to his cheek.

"It's okay, Sammy," he whispered soothingly. "Hush, baby. Everything's okay."

After a few seconds, comforted, calmed, Sam sank back down into deeper sleep.

Dean stayed with him, hand resting lightly on Sam's hip, staring into the past.

The three of them had gone back to Sioux Falls the day after he'd killed the boy, but it wasn't the same. It couldn't be, not with Bobby constantly watching Dean, treating him like he was a stranger, as if what he'd done made him some horrible, scary thing.

Dean grew more angry and defensive with each passing day and Sam, still healing, grew increasingly unstable under the tension between the two.

A few weeks of that and Dean had had enough.

He didn't need Bobby, didn't need their father. He didn't need anyone but Sam, and Sam didn't need anyone but Dean. The Winchester boys would be just fine on their own, fuck you very much.

Bobby had tried to talk him out of it, but Dean, seeing the old man with new eyes, had seen his relief. Underneath the protestations of concern for their safety, Bobby was glad Dean was leaving; glad not to have to deal with whatever he thought Dean was turning into.

But Bobby wasn't willing to let Sam go so easy. He'd even tried to talk Sam into staying with him, helping him out with the hub.

At the thought of Sam staying with Bobby - Bobby _stealing_ his brother from him - Dean's rage, never too far away, rose to the surface.

_I should have killed the prick then, _he thought viciously_. I should have known it would come to this._

Sam stirred underneath his hand and he broke that thought off.

Breathe. Breathe.

Don't wake Sam.

His rage cooled. His thoughts returned calmly, analytically, to the problem at hand.

Sammy wouldn't like it, of course. He loved Bobby.

But he'd like it less if Bobby killed Dean.

And the plain fact was that if Bobby did manage to kill him, Sam wouldn't last any longer than it took to raise a gun to his own head.

No. No _fucking_ way.

Okay, then.

Decision made, Dean stripped down to bare skin and crawled into bed beside Sam, humming with contentment as the sleeping boy turned to him, snuggled into him.

Soon, at peace with his decision, Dean slid easily into sleep.

And dreamed of killing Bobby Singer.


End file.
